


it was never focus that was missing, it was meaning.

by henryclerval



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Not Beta Read, Robots, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he had air in his lungs or a heart in his chest or acid in his stomach they would be crowding his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it was never focus that was missing, it was meaning.

He does what he can to make sure John is comfortable—the twitchiness, the unease, doesn’t escape him. Couldn’t. Not when John is restless and holding his breath. Dorian searches databases, scans over studies, and remains uncertain on whether or not to wake his partner. Could nightmares really do so much harm? Instead he leans, and tries to smooth out a rumple in John’s forehead with his thumb. 

The skin moves underneath his finger, muscle responding and John's whole face changing because of his touch. Dorian will try not to abuse this power. 

Instead he goes from one finger to two, to three, to four, and soon he's managed to cross the expanse of mattress and sheets and rumpled quilt that he didn't need anyway, to gently soothe. He wishes he could ask if it's working because John's face shows no signs of ease, no signs of emotional response despite the physical reactions Dorian sees (oh, the softening of breathing; how John minutely rests down into the pillow; becomes malleable and easy because of Dorian and only Dorian). 

Dorian will not abuse this power. This is a gift. A very private, very intimate opportunity. 

If he had air in his lungs or a heart in his chest or acid in his stomach they would be crowding his throat. His fingers would be clammy, butterflies swarming, nausea flexing; but here, in John's personal space, he feels oddly calm. Worry feels natural. He cups the back of John's head and stays put, grounds him, and quietly hopes that John doesn't wake to how he's crossed national lines like this. Would he mind? Or would he lean into the touch? Or would he simply not acknowledge it at all, and allow Dorian to continue on uninterrupted? 

The questions make Dorian's mouth feign dryness, and if he had a nervous tick it would be there. Now. And now. And then. And there. Perhaps his nervous tick is examining John's nervous ticks--the spasm in John's mouth, his brow, the upper eyelid, and they're all catalogued and stored away for later use. 

Dorian will do his best not to abuse this power--this lovely bow-wrapped present that John has settled into his arms and against his chest and breathing into Dorian's shoulder--but he'll easily use it for his own, selfish purposes.


End file.
